Only Human
by Andante Cavatina
Summary: After the dissolution of Prussia, Gilbert questions his mortality, and Roderich tries to straighten out his feelings for the irritating nation. It seems the only ones who can untangle their problems are each other. PruAus, three-shot?


**AN: Had a huge urge to write some angsty stuff and post it before school started... which was last week. Written while listening to "Sound the Bugle Now" by Bryan Adams (the first half really fits this chapter, but the whole song is very relatable). There will probably be three-ish chapters total, but I'm not too sure yet.**

 **Anyways, enjoy!**

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" _The Prussian state which from early days has been a bearer of militarism and reaction in Germany has de facto ceased to exist…_

 _The Prussian State together with its central government and all its agencies are abolished."_

Allied Control Council Law No. 46

February 25, 1947

…

He watched as they signed it away. There was nothing in his expression: no false bravado, no anger or bitterness, just pain. His land, his people—four hundred years of history and pride gone. It hurt. Dear God, it hurt so much.

He had lost land before, but never like this. The stroke of the pen cut sharper than any sword; its ink burned like fire. His vision blurred, and he suddenly felt all the strength drain from his body.

It occurred to him just then that maybe, possibly, he might be dying.

Gilbert blacked out.

…

When he woke, it was to the sound of silence and the glare of the morning sun. The rays were a welcome change from the inky darkness of sleep. For a moment, he thought he had died in his sleep and that this surely was either the glow of heaven's angels or the blaze of awaiting hellfire. He didn't know which he prefered.

But then he blinked once or twice, and Gilbert saw the familiar furniture of his room. West was hunched over in a chair next to him.

"Luddy?" he croaked. It seemed as if the voice speaking didn't belong to him at all.

Ludwig looked up. His face was shockingly exhausted, with shadowy circles surrounding his eyes and drawn skin stretched over his cheekbones. Oddly enough, his eyes looked bluer than usual, more alive and healthy than the rest of him; Gilbert realized with a cringe that it must have been from the new land he'd gained.

"Gilbert?" The blonde's voice echoed with relief. He stood, back now ramrod straight despite obvious fatigue. "You've been out for five days. W-we thought you were…"

"Don't worry, West, I'm fine." Gilbert forced an easy laugh. "It'll take more than a piece of paper to bring me down." He could sense his heart beating steadily, but it was an empty comfort. He bet Berlin could go up in flames and he wouldn't feel a thing.

Maybe he was dying. Maybe there was an invisible timer over his head that dictated exactly how much time he had left. A year, a month, a day?

Or maybe, maybe he was just human.

Gritting his teeth, Gilbert started to get up, but West stopped him with a firm hand on his shoulder. "You're tired. Go back to sleep, _bruder_ ," Ludwig instructed sternly.

Gilbert huffed. "I think I've had enough sleep for now," he muttered. Ludwig relented grudgingly. _Honor the wishes of the dead,_ Gilbert thought dryly. _Or the soon-to-be dead._

"Hey, West," he said as they walked haltingly down the stairs, "what did you mean by 'we'? You know, before?"

Ludwig shrugged vaguely. "Everyone, I guess. We were all worried. Feliciano dropped by a couple times, and I'm sure France and Spain would be here now, but they're a little bit busy. Austria was worried sick. He's been staying here the entire time…"

Gilbert had stopped listening after the first mention of Roderich. He didn't know why, but their dynamic had changed during the war. He remembered coming back from the front to an empty house with an empty heart. West was not himself, and the only soul inside was Austria. More often than not, they would argue and yell and take their frustration out on one another.

But when Gilbert was injured and broken, Roderich was the one who tended to his wounds. In return, he would bring news of the war, real news, not the lies that the Nazis spun and spoonfed to them. Every now and then, Gilbert would talk of the atrocities he had seen and done, and Roderich would listen and soothe him with light teasing and reassurances, little things that meant nothing in the face of war but everything to him. The Austrian always said that he was never good with words, that he could only truly speak through music; Gilbert knew it was a lie. Roderich's voice was the one thing that could piece his world back together.

He remembered returning home one day. They had brought him to Auschwitz, to show him the glory they were creating for the "New Germany." He had seen the walking corpses, the perpetual cloud of ash that blocked out the sun. He had planned to keep it from Roderich and spare him this special horror. But inside the house Gilbert had collapsed and wept shamelessly. Roderich had dried his tears again and again, and when he wouldn't stop crying, had pressed trembling lips against his.

Gilbert had gone back to war the day after with a strange feeling he couldn't shake.

The next time he came home, it was still the same push-and-pull routine, and yet something more than their fiery spats and meaningless comforts. Whatever it was, Gilbert loved it.

He and West stopped in the living room, and now he could see for himself the figure that had turned at the sound of their approach. Gilbert readied an impish grin, but when he saw Roderich's face, it all went out the window.

Roderich was beautiful. He must have been sleeping on the couch just then because his glasses were tilted to the side and his hair was mussed up here and there. He looked just as worn as Ludwig was, if not more so, and Gilbert felt something prick his heart at the sight. Yet Roderich's eyes were still as violet and deep as he remembered, and it was like he was falling in love all over again.

He saw Roderich's eyes flicker with shock and relief and unshed tears. Gilbert took a shaky step forward, and almost immediately something unreadable flashed over the Austrian's face. Gilbert stood frozen as Roderich suddenly paled, watching helplessly as Roderich whirled around and disappeared into the snow outside.

Gilbert stepped forward again, but at the same time his heart spasmed and he fell to his knees. It wasn't a prick or an ache, more like a brutal stab and the feeling of his heart cracking in two. He hated it, hated the pain and longing of a human heart without the mask of a nation to hide behind. He vaguely felt Ludwig pull him up and lead him back to bed. West was whispering something in German. It must have been an attempt at comfort; Gilbert just wasn't listening. His mind was still in the living room, staring at the front door as it slammed shut.

Ludwig was obviously inexperienced at soothing: the language sounded awkward and heavy on his tongue. Gilbert loved his brother dearly, but at the moment, he could only think of the voice that spoke German like music and the words that put him back together just right.

…

When he woke again, it was like déjà vu. Light shined through the window almost just as it had before; where it was golden and warm, now it glowed cool and distant with moonlight, casting the room in silvers and shadows. Yet however tranquil the scene looked, Gilbert felt an itch under his skin, a tightness in his chest. He needed to get out.

He could hear very faintly the sound of Ludwig's snoring down the hall, and based off the exhaustion he had seen earlier, he was pretty sure the coast was clear. Slipping on a familiar jacket over his pajamas and old black boots, he crept down the stairs and out the door.

The streets were nearly devoid of life; the only movements that separated the city from a photograph were drifting snowflakes and the occasional car. The people who were awake at this hour were most likely in a bar, and although beer was usually the answer to his problems, Gilbert kept walking.

Anyone who bothered to look outside would have seen a man wandering the streets of Berlin dressed in the most obscure fashion: wrinkled pajama pants, broken-in combat boots, and an unusual dark blue jacket. Few could recognize the WWI Prussian uniform, and even less knew the man who wore it.

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 **AN: Hope the characters weren't too OOC. Sorry about Austria, but we'll get his POV next chapter.**

 **Reviews are much appreciated!**


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